Drowned Wednesday

‘Stand sentry-like while you whip up some magic,’ replied Watkingle, tapping the cutlass at his side. ‘And if your eyes turn yellow and you start acting strange or yabbering peculiar, then I’m to give you a tap on the head with the pommel of this ’ere cutlass.’

‘Uh, that’s not exactly. . .’ Arthur started to say. Then he shrugged and nodded.

I guess if my eyes do turn yellow and I start yabbering peculiar it probably would be best to hit me on the head, he thought.

Sunlight — or the light from the ceiling of the Border Sea — streamed in through the porthole. Arthur sat down, got out the mirror, angled it to the light, and raised the shell to his ear.

Once again, Arthur tried to think of Leaf. A few images rose up in his mind. When he’d first seen her, refusing to run, with her brother, Ed. Then in her house, with the Scoucher cutting its way through the front door.

These images briefly crossed the surface of the mirror, then it went dark. Arthur heard the hiss inside the shell change. He caught the sound of footsteps, followed by a match striking. Light flared in the mirror and the darkness ebbed.

Arthur saw a pale hand transfer the match to a lantern. Then, as the wick caught and flared, another view of a small space aboard a ship. Not the same prison area Leaf had been in before, though the ceiling was only four feet high. This was a long, narrow room.

Leaf was there. She looked quite different. She had a blue bandanna tied around her hair and was wearing a blue-striped shirt and black breeches, with the tops of her high sea-boots folded down over her knees. Even in the flickering light, Arthur could see her skin was much darker than it had been, burned brown by some otherworldly sun.

There was a boy with her, dressed in the same style. He was the one who had lit the lantern, which now hung by a hook in the ceiling.

‘I don’t see why we have to fight, Albert,’ said Leaf. ‘It seems kind of dumb to me. I mean, it’s not as if we don’t get along okay.’

‘Tradition,’ replied Albert glumly. ‘I don’t want to fight either, but the Captain told me we have to. “Ship’s boys always fight,” he said, “and Miss Leaf has been aboard a month without a drubbing. See to it, or you can both have twenty of the best over the twelve-pounder.”’

‘What?’

‘Twenty strokes of Pannikin’s cane over one of the cannons,’ explained Albert. He was rolling up his sleeves. ‘Which would hurt a lot more than anything you could do.’

‘You’re just trying to make me angry,’ said Leaf. She didn’t bother to roll up her sleeves, instead leaning back against a curved internal strut. ‘Which won’t work. I’ve studied psychology. I know what you’re trying to do.’

‘You don’t know much else,’ said Albert, though there wasn’t much heat in his words. ‘I get tired trying to teach you everyday stuff you should already know.’

‘What, like the difference between the mizzen gaff and the mizzen topsail yard?’ snorted Leaf. ‘As if I’d ever need to know that back home.’

‘I keep telling you, you won’t be going home,’ said Albert. ‘That just doesn’t happen. You might as well face up to the fact that you’re one of the Piper’s children now, or good as.’

‘Arthur will find me,’ said Leaf. ‘He’s the Master of the Lower House and everything. I’ll be going home, sooner or later.’

‘Sure, and Pannikin will give us extra plum pudding for good work,’ Albert scoffed, then suddenly darted forward and punched Leaf fair in the face.

‘Ow! What the —’ Albert darted in again, but this time when he threw a punch, Leaf ducked aside and trapped his arm with an obviously well-practised move using her left hand and right arm. She followed this up with a swinging movement of her body that propelled Albert into the side of the ship.

He hit hard and Leaf let go. But instead of falling down or giving up, Albert turned around and punched her again, this time in the stomach. Leaf fell back, gasping, the wind knocked out of her.

‘That’ll probably do it,’ said Albert, wiping his bloodied nose with the back of his hand. ‘S’ long as the Captain sees blood he’ll be satisfied, and if you can walk around all hunched up like that for a hour or two —’

‘I might have to, you idiot,’ complained Leaf. ‘If you just needed a bloody nose why didn’t you say so?’

‘I thought it’d be better if you had the bloody nose,’ said Albert. ‘Didn’t know you could fight, did I? What was that wrestling trick?’

‘Judo.’ Leaf straightened up and took a breath. ‘And that’s not all I know either, so you watch it.’

‘We can be friends again now,’ said Albert, holding out his hand. ‘For about another three months or so, I reckon, before the Captain decides we should be fighting. Or if we get any more ship’s boys aboard. Or we get washed between the ears and have to start all over again.’

‘Washed between the ears? That doesn’t sound good,’ replied Leaf as they shook hands.

‘It isn’t. It’s strange, now I think about it. I mean, the Border Sea is all messed up, what with Wednesday turning into a great big fish and all, but the washing between the ears is still regular. Someone always turns up to do it, every couple of decades. Never thought about that before. Can’t see why anyone would bother. We’re just the Piper’s brats, after all.’

‘I’ll have to ask Arthur,’ said Leaf. ‘I want to know why the Piper brought you all here in the first place too. And the Raised Rats.’

Albert shrugged.

‘Never thought about it all myself. Too much to do. Speaking of which, we’d better get back topside before my nose stops.’

He lifted down the lantern and blew it out. Arthur listened as it was replaced, and to the soft footfalls as the two children walked away. He was about to stop watching, when a narrow beam of light entered the frame, and he saw the silhouettes of Leaf and Albert against it. They were opening a hatch and climbing out, but as they did so, there was a lot of shouting from up above. It took Arthur a few seconds to separate out some specific words from the general tumult.

‘Beat to quarters!’

‘It’s the Shiver!’

As Arthur heard the words, a strange red wash crossed the mirror, like a crimson oil spreading on water. The dark image of the inside of the Flying Mantis was replaced with something lit by a very bright, green-hued sun, so glaring that Arthur had to squint.

‘You may wear gloves,’ said a voice from somewhere within the bright light. ‘But I can still see the mark of MY RED HAND!’

Nineteen

ARTHUR TRIED TO LOOK AWAY, but an unseen force gripped his head, keeping him staring at the mirror.

‘You will come to me,’ ordered the voice in the light. It was little more than a whisper, but it echoed in Arthur’s mind. ‘Reach through the mirror with your red-splashed hand.’

Arthur’s fingers twitched. He felt them slide across the surface of the mirror without his control, his whole hand preparing to plunge through the silvered glass. At the same time, through squinting eyes, he saw a face emerge from the light. A shrivelled face that looked like an ancient bog corpse that had been burnt.

‘You have stolen from Feverfew — now you must make reparations,’ whispered the face, which Arthur knew with dread was Feverfew’s own, sorcery-ravaged and twisted by Nothing. ‘Reach through the mirror!’

‘NO!’ Arthur screamed. He couldn’t shut his eyes, but he managed to turn his head, dislodging the shell. Still, Feverfew’s voice remained, whispering inside his skull.

‘Reparations . . . reach through the mirror . . . reach through the mirror —’

There was a sharp pain in Arthur’s head, and the voice vanished. Arthur blinked several times and just managed to raise his hands in time to stop Watkingle from hitting him for the second time with the pommel of his cutlass.

‘No! Don’t! I’m all right!’

Watkingle lowered his cutlass.

‘Wasn’t sure I hit hard enough,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d start with a little tap, like on a table for ordering a drink.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Arthur, feeling the sore spot on the top of his head. He felt a small wash of nausea pass over him and gulped. Seasickness, he figured.

‘You were screaming softly,’ said Watkingle. ‘Fair gave me the shudders.’

‘Me too,’ replied Arthur. He sat up and looked around, ignoring a momentary attack of dizziness. The mirror was lying on the floor, a huge crack running across it. The shell was crushed under his foot.

A fixed gaslight burned in the corner of the cabin, and there was no longer any sunshine coming through the porthole. The ship was vibrating with a low, regular hum, and he could hear a distant sound like someone hitting a punching bag, not in time with the slight roll and pitch of the ship.

‘How long was I looking in the mirror?’

‘From four bells in the afternoon watch to six bells of the first,’ reported Watkingle. ‘Nine hours, more or less.’

‘It seemed like minutes. I guess they were a long way out in the Secondary Realms. I wonder where. . .?’

Arthur’s head throbbed and his throat was sore, probably from the soft screaming Watkingle had described. He shivered again as he thought of Feverfew’s horribly burned face and his whispering voice.

Don’t think about Feverfew, he told himself. Think about what must be done.

‘The Flying Mantis was about to be attacked by the Shiver,’ Arthur said aloud, still thinking to himself.

‘The Mantis?’ said Watkingle. ‘That’d be a rare fight. She’s a regular ship. Pirates don’t normally go for the regulars. They might win, but they’d get mighty cut up.’

‘Feverfew’s already taken the Moth,’ said Arthur. ‘And now he’s gone for the Mantis. I wonder if. . .?’

He knows I have something to do with those two ships, Arthur thought, the shivers coming back. With his sorcery, he’s seen the connections. I’m marked by his Red Hand and he’s looking for me. I’ll never get away, I’ll never …

‘Stop!’ said Arthur, stamping his good foot. His own mind was getting out of control.

‘Stop what, sir?’ asked Watkingle.

‘Never mind.’ Arthur forced the little voice of fear in his head to shut up. He was going to strike first, and once he had the Will released and the Third Key, he could sort out Feverfew without any problems. Probably. Almost for sure. . .

‘Is Lieutenant Longtayle awake?’ he asked.

‘Captain Longtayle,’ corrected Watkingle. ‘Not his watch, but I could wake him if it’s urgent.’

‘No, I guess there’s no point waking him,’ said Arthur. He massaged his temple with his fingers as he often saw his mother doing. Perhaps that would make his headache go away. ‘What’s wrong with calling him lieutenant, anyway? The Commodore called him that.’

‘He’s a lieutenant in the service,’ explained Watkingle. ‘But he’s the captain of this ’ere ship, so he’s always called Captain on board, except by higher-ranking Rats discussing matters not to do with the ship. Understand?’

Arthur shook his head. He couldn’t concentrate on weird details like this.

‘I’ll just call him Captain all the time to be on the safe side. I suppose I should try to get some sleep.’

‘I would if I were you, sir,’ agreed Watkingle. ‘Always sleep when you can, that’s my rule. Now, as the Captain has ordered me to keep a sentry on you for your own protection, I might just lie down on this ’ere floor if you’ve no objection?’

‘Be my guest,’ said Arthur. He lay down on the bunk. There was no chance of going to sleep, he thought. He had too many ideas floating around in his head, and too many nervous fears knotting up his stomach. All kinds of worries: about Leaf, Scamandros, Sunscorch, and the crew of the Moth, about insanely driving a submarine into the mouth of a monstrous whale. . .

* * *

Arthur woke with a start. There was sunshine streaming through the porthole again. Watkingle was propped against the door with his tail across his lap, apparently asleep. But as Arthur sat up, the Rat opened one eye and his tail flicked over.

‘What time is it?’ Arthur asked.

‘Just past four bells of the forenoon watch,’ Watkingle replied. He got up, straightened out his shirt, and brushed some cheese fragments and crumbs off his breeches.

‘Which is what in normal hours?’

‘Ten o’clock in the morning.’

Arthur rubbed his eyes. He still felt incredibly sleepy.

‘So I slept for about eleven hours, right?’

‘No,’ said Watkingle. ‘You’ve been asleep for the last four days.’

‘Four days! I — I can’t have,’ stammered Arthur. ‘That’s impossible.’

‘The Captain had Mister Yongtin in to look at you when you didn’t wake up the first morning,’ said Watkingle. The Rat shuffled a bit and his tail flicked nervously. ‘He said that a combination of a sorcerous insult and a . . . um. . . blow to the head had laid you low and you ought to come good in a few days. After a few days, he said he wanted to open up your head and take a look —’ Arthur hastily felt his head. There were no bandages and he couldn’t feel any scars or stitches.

‘He was going to do it this evening if you didn’t come around,’ said Watkingle. ‘So as you’d be right for when we arrive in Port Wednesday.’